


Alternate Chapters For House Of Wren

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Series: The Wren Series [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, deleted material from House Of Wren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 04:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10325237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: These are the chapters I replaced in House Of Wren, taking a different direction and tone. If you enjoyed the story, you might enjoy this version of events!





	

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned, there are things in these chapters that I like. What I thought I needed to fix was the pacing. It's rushed and out of keeping with the preceding chapters. The tone. I have nothing against breezy, sexy interludes but John and Harold's reunion deserved more weight. The plot. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with it. I was not sure it was really the direction I wanted to go.
> 
> So, there it is, and here it is -- as it was! :)

Chapter 13 — The Library

Harold ate a mouthful of spicy noodles and kept his eye on a couple of the racked computer monitors; watching for stutters in the flow of code. He and Arthur had a half dozen set up around them. Most of them were lit with the scroll of test runs for a project of Arthur’s they had dubbed, Samaritan. It was a years’ long undertaking, massive in scope, to create a type of artificial intelligence. Harold had been helping him on an informal consulting basis from the beginning, more so lately as the project had intensified.

Harold loved this work and had facilitated their collaboration by creating a beautiful work space in his new home. They were as happy as proverbial pigs in mud, surrounded by technological toys, many they had built themselves. In some ways it surpassed Arthur’s computer facilities at the government labs in Queens.

The building Harold now called home had once been a library. When he bought it the floors were littered with tumbled shelving and thousands of books, most of them sadly unsalvageable. Nathan thought he was out of his mind when Harold showed him the property.

“I said you should invest in real estate, not a rat-infested medieval fortress. Luxury condos, Harold. One to live in, one to rent out. Even if you were a developer, which you’re not, this place has no real potential. You can’t create apartments in such an unbalanced space.” He’d waved his arm, gesturing at the vast marble stairs and tall ceilings. “That’s all unusable square footage. Even for commercial use. You’d have to find a crazy person with a shitload of money to ever sell this place.”

“It’s for me, Nathan.” His friend had stared at him in the hazy light, it was all that filtered through construction shrouds that draped the building. Nathan shook his head slowly.

“I knew you weren’t hurting for money, Harold, but if you can afford to renovate this place … just to live in, you’re doing doing a whole lot better than I imagined.“ His expression was giving way to a look of wonder that made Harold uncomfortable.

“I’m good with computers. It’s … been lucrative.“ There was a rustling of mice or rats near them in the debris.

“Well I’m glad it’s done something besides ruin your eyesight. This place is making my skin crawl. Let’s go for a drink and see if I can’t talk some sense into you.”

Harold agreed to go for the drink but he wouldn’t change his mind about buying the old building. Though he and Nathan were still business partners, their lives and interests had diverged. He was sorry his friend didn’t see the beauty of the place but he’d already started the process of acquiring it.

Harold had not been hurting for money for quite some time. Via IFT, via consulting fees, through both House of Wren and other DBAs, he’d stockpiled considerable funds. Arthur had funneled more money than Nathan was aware of to him (under various names) from contracts and grants based on their joint work. These assets alone amounted to more wealth than Harold had ever contemplated. But it was his tinkering with investment algorithms that had proved embarrassingly successful. So successful he’d shut them down before he could attract unwanted attention, breaking them into ever smaller endeavors that required their own applications to keep track of.

By the age of thirty, his name might have been known for his wealth alone, if all his assets were attributed to one individual.

His indulgences were few. The library was one and Arthur loved it as much as Harold did. Only a recent blooming romance with a woman named Diane kept him from spending every free moment there with Harold.

This particular Sunday, he’d shown up laden with Chinese food and beer. It was Oscar night. One screen of the many they were scanning on the vast U-shaped work table, was devoted to the Academy Awards.

“You should be there, Harold.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Harold smiled, eyes flicking to the monitor his friend was watching. He couldn’t be happier that Nathan and his boyfriend Andre were attending the ceremony without him.

The independent adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s, An Ideal Husband, was a good film, but unlikely to take an award in any category. That it was a nominee for Best Costume Design surprised Harold. Nothing, not even the desire to please Arthur, could have induced him to participate in such a spectacle. He’d devoted more time to the event than was good for his sanity already, dealing with demands from frantic stylists who wanted their clients in signature IFT looks for the red carpet.

He was happy for Nathan, drawn like a moth to the light of notoriety. Andre Cooper was a perfect partner for him, Harold thought, keeping Nathan’s feet under him. He deserved to be there too, as responsible for the costume design, and certainly the work of creating them, as Harold was. He was a working class boy who’d come to the fashion world, leaving his job as a longshoreman behind. He’d first gotten Harold’s attention through an email.

Dear Mr Finch,

I’m the lucky owner of a beautiful waistcoat from your very first collection. I discovered it at a yard sale and recognized your work instantly (from magazines and catalogues.) I believe the neighbor who was selling it got it in a bundle of belongings from a former employer (whose house she used to clean!) It’s in excellent condition except for the broken buckle and it would be a shame to replace it with something else. Is it possible you still have access to the stock of original mother-of-pearl buckles?

I’m currently working as a longshoreman but on my days off I like to sew and have done some pattern-making!

You must hear it all the time but at the risk of echoing hundreds of others, I am a huge admirer of your work.

thanks for reading this!  
Andre Cooper

Harold had been entertained by the email and invited the young man to come to the IFT studios; a rambling combination of showroom and workrooms in Lower Manhattan. “Bring the waistcoat and we’ll see what we can find,” he’d written; curious to see the piece and to meet the author of the email.

Andre was appealing in every way, both sturdy and sweet-looking, knowledgeable and enthusiastic.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I own,” he told Harold, displaying the vest he’d cleaned and repaired.

Sometimes Harold thought he loved Andre more than Nathan did. The young man had appeared just when the workload and business were beginning to wear him down. The fashion-loving longshoreman had evolved from a part time assistant to apprentice and protege swiftly. His design sensibilities closely mirrored Harold’s own and his skill was astonishing. In the course of the past two years he’d taken an enormous load of the work onto his very strong shoulders.

Nathan fell for him like a ton of bricks.

The incident in Paris, now four years behind them, had effectively ended their relationship as lovers. Nathan had accepted it but Harold felt like the man continued to look to him to center his life. Until Andre appeared. Overnight the all-encompassing beam of Nathan’s attention shifted focus. Harold could practically feel it the moment it happened.

He and Andre were in the studio, combing through mother-of-pearl buttons and buckles. It was in the evening, since Andre was coming after work. Nathan showed up, impatient for Harold to finish up and go to dinner.

His eyes had lit with a kind of delighted curiosity when he got a good look at Andre, as if asking, What are you? Who are you? And without question, Harold thought, his gaze had said, I want you, when Andre looked back at him and said, “You must be, Mr Ingram.”

Now Arthur was pointing at the screen. “There they are! Damn that Nathan, the camera loves him. Look at Andre, he’s beaming. Look at them, Harold.” Arthur sighed as they watched their friends’ five second appearance on the red carpet.

“Don’t say ‘you should be there,’ again,” Harold warned him, sitting back from the work table to safeguard it from his container of spicy noodles.

“Sad to say, you’re probably right. You would have been a sulking puppy, trailing behind them. Miserable.” He turned to look at him and smiled. “And I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company here with me. Diane has no patience for this sort of thing.”

At that moment a beeping sounded from one of the terminals. Not one of Harold’s, one of Arthur’s, and his friend moved toward it, his fingers suddenly busy at the furthest keyboard.

“Oh my lord,” he muttered. “Please, no.”

Harold stared, unable to see the source of his friend’s distress. It was the GPS tracking program, that much he knew. Arthur had friends and associates scattered globally that he tracked as a matter of course, ever fine-tuning his surveillance capabilities. Keeping tabs on people he knew was like an added side benefit.

“What is it?” Harold demanded, now frightened by the ashen look on his friend’s face. Arthur shook his head, studying an inset data window.

“I can’t be sure. Can’t be sure.”

A feeling of dread was growing inside him as he watched him call up multiple windows. Maps, weather satellites, headings with military code. The military codes meant only one thing to Harold.

“Are you tracking John?” he breathed the question. Arthur had denied that he had any access to information about John. Harold had stopped asking. He knew his friend had intelligence contacts and had asked him years before about the possibility of getting information. Arthur had shut down the suggestion so firmly that he hadn’t raised it again. Now he stared, convinced that what he was seeing was something happening to John. It was a map of China. In the corner of the screen was a grainy satellite image. What? A tiny bloom, barely more than a speck but its wrongness felt palpable. It kept repeating on a loop.

The food he’d swallowed was like a rock in his gut, the room around him was becoming unreal. John. Something was happening to John.

*****************************************************************************************

Chapter 14 — Factories

“I developed the chip for them and I’ve kept track of John, in violation of my contract, ever since. I kept the information from you … to protect you.”

“Tell me where he is now.” Harold’s voice felt crushed, his throat thick.

“I did it to stop you from doing something dangerous … like what you’re thinking about doing now. He’s halfway across the world.”

“You can either tell me what I want to know, Arthur, or I can hack your program and break the encryption on my way to Beijing.” Harold flipped open his own laptop. He was going to get to China and he was going to find John.

“Beijing? If I’m right, Harold, and he survived the explosion … he’s out in the wilderness somewhere. There’s no way for you to reach him. I’ve deactivated his chip. It’s the best safeguard I can give him. Unfortunately, it’s a two-edged sword. It gives him a fighting chance if he is alive, but it also means we have no way to track him.””

The pressure in Harold’s throat was breaking. He didn’t want to cry, he needed to focus and work.

“I have to try.”

“If you attract the wrong attention, the danger is … incalculable. This is our government we’re talking about, killing its own. There is no statute of limitations on the crime committed by Harold Davidson. Please, my friend, don’t do this.”

Harold looked up at Arthur. The same brown-eyed gaze he knew and loved met his eyes but there was a chasm between them. He didn’t feel anger. It was more than that, different from that, like the earth had shifted under their feet. He didn’t doubt that his friend was motivated by the desire to protect him but he didn’t want that protection, he wanted to be the protector, he wanted to reach John and help him.

“He would not want you to do this. He trusted me, Harold. I’m not speculating. I know this.” The words were like weights on Harold’s heart.

“You’ve been … in contact?”

“Before he left, at the outset. We talked. He made his feelings very clear when I revealed what I knew about his posting, and how I knew it. I told you as much as I dared. Between his warnings and the constraints of the work … it’s never been enough. I know that. Forgive me, Harold. I had no choice.”

Arthur’s struggle with what he knew and what he could reveal was so clear now in his eyes. Harold could see it, he could understand that his friend had been threading a minefield. Secrets were an awful burden he’d carried and understood, but his need was an avalanche, it buried the understanding.

 

***

China. As tired as he was through the long flight, Harold couldn’t sleep more than twenty minutes at a time before anxiety would awaken him. Years before, when he’d prepped himself for MIT, one of the subjects he’d studied was Mandarin. He’d wanted to speak some polite phrases to the roommate he’d been informed he’d be sharing a room with. Now, more than a decade later, he found it calming to mentally review phrases, quietly practice the inflections. Other thoughts intruded.

Arthur believed that John and his partner had been targeted by their own agency, though he would not say why. The government killing their own people; it was a nightmare. It made him want to reach back in time and stop John somehow before he could set foot on such a dire path. All this time, all these years. How naive he’d been, about Arthur, about John.

So many unknowns. Harold couldn’t allow himself to give in to despair. He clung to the hope that John was alive and he would find him — and silently summoned up what he knew of Mandarin, refocusing. 

One thing, perhaps the most vital thing that Arthur had done to help him when he accepted that he couldn’t stop him, was arrange for Chinese assistants. While Harold fabricated a pretext and papers for himself to be wandering the Chinese countryside, Arthur had contacted a friend in Beijing from his university days. His friend agreed to hire bodyguards to travel inland with him. The official purpose for Harold’s visit was to scout potential factory sites for IFT textile production. To solidify this cover, he realized, the factories might actually have to be built.

Two men met him at the Beijing airport and handled everything from whisking him through customs to packing and loading the shiny new van they picked him up in. Harold, exhausted and disoriented was surprised by how quickly they took charge of him. They were far better equipped to navigate this world than he was.

Wang Lei, whose name roughly translated to “rock pile,” looked the part of a bodyguard; thickly muscled, his head shaved, his stoic face said nothing could hurt him. He turned out to be as gentle and movie-crazed as Harold’s friend Arthur.

Li Jie, a smaller man, was quite good looking, Harold thought, in a melancholy way, as if he were nursing a quiet sorrow. He seemed to be the senior of Harold’s “assistants.” Bribery, payoffs, Li negotiated these tools while Harold looked on in disconcerted confusion. At the airport alone, Harold saw him smoothly palm money to three different people and suspected a number of other transactions he couldn’t be sure of.

Harold tried to question him in his rudimentary Mandarin, moments after the first time he thought he saw him slip money into the hand of an official in uniform. Li answered him quietly, in perfect English.

“Yes, Mr Finch. It was necessary.”

“Trust him,” Wang said, springing the first of many beaming smiles at Harold. “Congratulations on your Oscar win, Mr Finch.”

“Thank you.” Harold was disarmed by Wang and somewhat intimidated by Li. He gazed from one to the other and mentally surrendered to their care. Li offered a slight smile, as if sensing capitulation.

“We’ll take good care of you, boss.”

They knew his cover story; scouting factory sites and searching for a colleague who was already in country. Whether or not they believed it, he wasn’t sure.

The van had two luxurious seats up front and a bed in the back, built on a platform above storage compartments. Wang and Li would take turns sleeping in the cushiony front seats, one staying awake to be on guard, the other resting while Harold slept in the back at night.

While they drove, Wang sat in back on the bed, leaning forward between the seats, quizzing Harold about actors and actresses. Harold did his best as they made their way out of the city, until his tiredness caught up with him.

“Let the man rest,” Li said.

It was hours later he woke up to gentle prompting from Wang. They’d stopped along the side of the road.

The countryside was beautiful, he thought, despite the slight haze of smog, not as dense as it was in the city. The air carried a faint whiff of char.

“It’s from burning chaff during the wheat harvest,” Li explained. “Not as bad now as other times of year. We’ll go a little further before we make our first visit, but I want you to have a chance to wake up. Not many Westerners travel here. The more stops we make, the better. People see you, they’re going to tell us if they’ve seen someone else. That’s how we find your friend.”

The “visits” multiplied.

Thirty-six hours and counting, Harold thought. Each stop brought a chance. It seemed impossible that he was sitting at a rickety table in a party official’s dusty front yard, drinking tea, surrounded by the man’s family. He couldn’t afford to think about the hours ticking away. This was his only means of searching. He needed to remain calm, maintain his cover. 

The official and his wife and neighbors had gathered to hear Li Jie tell them what a rich and important man Harold was, that he was planning to bring business from America. Harold was not so absorbed in his own ends that he failed to be moved by the people he was meeting. Hard-working and so hard-pressed. He would be creating these factories, he promised himself, whether he found John or not.

A carnival air would rise wherever they stopped. People would gather, curious, as if Harold was an exotic side show. Children stared at him, at his expensive, unlikely clothing, the shiny vehicle; they approached, some boldly, some shyly to meet him, touch him, touch his clothes, accept sweets from him.

It was children who led them to John.

Forty-eight hours since he’d set foot in Beijing. A spring day, brisk and windy, hazy sun breaking through morning clouds. At a stop to buy gas from a roadside store that had a fuel pump and ramshackle garage, a youngster hung on Li’s hand.

“What’s he saying?” Harold asked, seeing the man pay sudden serious attention to the boy.

“He says they saw a big ghost.” His eyes were a little apologetic. “Someone like you. They thought he was a monster or demon. Now they want to know if he belongs to you.”

“Where … can they take us?”

“You and I stay,” Li told him. “Wang goes with the children. If your friend is hurt, he can help him.”

For what felt like eternity Harold waited.

The store boasted a refrigerator with a modest supply of Chinese and American sodas. Harold became a hero of the local school when all thirty students appeared, led by three teachers. They came marching single-file up the road from their school to see him. He shook small hands and bought sodas for them. Even the ones who were sharing when the supply of Coca-cola ran out, were smiling as they passed the cans of the fizzy American drink from one to another. Their delight went a long way to helping him cope with the unbearable task of waiting.

 

***

 

“You want me to kill my partner.”

That was the directive he’d failed to carry out. Didn’t matter. She also failed, he thought, but not for lack of trying. Knocked out by the blast, John had come to, exposed in an open field, caked with ash and littered with debris. He had to find shelter … but first he had to move. The slightest shift sent spikes of pain through his body. Slowly, carefully, he searched himself for wounds and found he was badly bruised and scraped raw in places but he had no broken bones.

Traveling on foot was slow but there was no other choice.

They must believe I’m dead or they’d have found me.

Don’t think. Keep moving. But he did think. Moving through the night, his thoughts spiraled through the mission.

“You are to retire Agent Stanton.” Neither of them were meant to make it out alive. He hadn’t been able to shoot her. Couldn’t do it. He’d accepted the orders but when the time came, he couldn’t. His partner. No love lost there. She’d had no problem turning her gun on him.

Being free of Kara was like losing shackles he’d been weighed down with so long that their absence was almost incomprehensible. As he groped his way eastward he began to taste his freedom. The darkness could never be escaped. It was part of him. Even if he found his way out he would live in shadow, but he would be unbound.

I’m dead to them now. Freedom meant one thing. It meant Harold.

At night, moving slowly but steadily, fueled by determination, he dared to hold out hope. There were resources he could tap if he made it to Beijing. A way. There must be a way. His mind drifted to Paris, always to Paris. The world of those minutes with Harold, it was a universe in his memory. Every sensation was pleasure, every touch, every scent. He couldn’t ask Harold to live with him in hiding, but he could find him. See him.

John slept fitfully, hidden as well as he could manage in the open terrain. It was farmland. The field he’d taken refuge in was scrubby and rock-strewn and he’d tucked himself amid the largest boulders he could find, using handfuls of spear-like grass for camouflage.

He awakened to the sound of children’s voices and when they seemed to be making straight for him he weighed his options of frightening or befriending them. 

A child’s face appeared over the rocks, then a man loomed over him. He looked like a village tough guy. John thought he could take him if he bent down close enough, pull him off balance into the rocks. Then the tough guy grinned and spoke to him, in English.

“Harold is waiting.” It made no sense.

Convinced he’d misheard or imagined the name, John limped with his arm across the stranger’s shoulders. Harold couldn’t be here. Wherever this guy was taking him, he’d go. One thing he knew, the strong bastard wasn’t agency, or he’d be dead already. John needed food, he needed water. A way to get to the city.

Then he saw him in the distance. Like a mirage in a three piece suit. He let go of the man supporting him, standing still to stare.

“What is he doing here?” The wrongness of Harold’s presence fought with the joy of seeing him. There was no explanation for this rending of reality that didn’t include betrayal. If Arthur did this, he thought, I will kill him. Harold, here, meant he’d done something crazy and incredibly dangerous.

He had spoken aloud, the question addressed to the universe, but it was the man beside him who answered.

“He says he’s here to build factories. I think he came here for you and he’ll build as many factories as it takes to find you. I hope you’re worth it, brother.” John looked at him and the guy was looking back at him, no longer smiling; he was judging and beneath the judgement, an implied threat. John felt a painful smile twitch at his lips, recognizing another man’s devotion. He looked back at the distant figure and swallowed hard, both frightened for him and in awe of him. He began to limp forward again. 

 

***

 

Li had sent the gaggle of children and young teachers on their way when they sighted the men approaching.

“You wait in here,” Li told him, opening the back doors. “No big meeting … no tears, boss. I’ll take the clothes. We’ll clean him up out back and bring him to you.” Harold acquiesced, wanting to race to John but understanding he needed to follow Li’s guidance; the man’s gaze was sympathetic but his directions firm. Under the bed, Harold indicated the case of clothing he’d brought for John. Li pulled it out and grabbed one of the large water jugs as well as a handful of rags.

Harold sat on the edge of the bed in the back of the van. John now lay there beside him. He was quiet. So quiet, but his eyes were intent, gazing at Harold’s face.

“You missed spots, on your face.” Harold spoke softly, as evenly as he could, his hands shaking as he tipped a water bottle to dampen a rag.

“The papers reported the explosion of an old gas storage tank. Mischief by vandals in Ordos.”

Li was back in the driver’s seat, Wang riding shotgun. The bodyguards were speaking in low voices, not in English. They’d begun their journey back to the city. Ever so often Wang would glance over his shoulder at them. Harold was washing the few remaining smears of soot from John’s face.

“You, Mr Warren, traveled out here ahead of me,” he said, wiping grime from his cheek, catching the drip of water through his beard. “To scout properties for our factory. Now, we’re going home, together.” It was like telling a bedtime story to a child, speaking quietly and evenly so the story wouldn’t be unduly exciting. Keeping his voice low helped him not to cry.

John closed his eyes when the wet cloth neared his mouth. He reached up and grasped Harold’s wrist; he guided his hand with the cloth over his lips.

Harold drew in a deep breath to absorb his presence and savor the pressure of a kiss in the palm of his hand.

***************************************************************************************

Chapter 15 — Together

John knew Harold would react badly to the bruises. It was the only part of getting naked with him that wasn’t good.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I’m sure it’s worse,” Harold said, frowning.

“This is where the armor took the bullets.” He pointed to the bruises on his chest; the under-layer that Kara was unaware of had saved his life. He thought this perspective would put the injuries in the right light, insignificant. He was wrong.

“Oh god.” Harold’s distress worsened.

“Come here.” Holding him close was better than explaining and it seemed to work.

They were in their suite’s bathroom, planning to shower off days of dust. John had shed his clothes much more quickly than Harold who had been slowed down by staring at John’s injuries. He was still in his undershirt and a pair of the thin silk boxers that often appeared in John’s fantasies. Harold’s underwear had its own shrine in his memory. Countless nights he’d thoughts about the things his lover wore against his skin, kissing them in his mind, imagining the fabric against his face, his cock.

The undershirt felt soft and warm on John’s chest and the boxers like butterfly kisses on his hard cock. Harold’s was relaxing, forehead smooth, eyes lowering and his cheeks flushed with color.

The greatest luxury of the luxury suite was privacy. John ran his fingers through Harold’s hair as he kissed him; it was a deeper shade of blond now, with dark honey threads. He’d had a long time to study him but few chances to touch with Harold’s well-intentioned bodyguards a constant few feet away.

John leaned back against the sink, the chill against his ass was a brief contrast to the heat building between their bodies. His hand dropped to Harold’s ass, sliding inside his underwear to find bare skin.

A loud ringing started up from the other room.

“Don’t answer it,” John said, but Harold was already pulling away, putting his glasses on as if he needed to see to talk. It was the hotel phone. John sighed, grabbing a robe from the back of the door and following him out.

Resigned to the interruption, he turned down the bed, figuring it might be better to finish messing Harold up before cleaning him up in the shower.

“What?” he heard him say. “Can you repeat that, please.”

There was a pounding at the door of the suite. John reached to the small of his back for a gun that wasn’t there.

“Who is it?” Harold asked, following him toward the door.

“Stay back,” John ordered him, motioning Harold away.

“It’s Nathan,” their visitor announced, loudly. “Open the door.”

He cracked it slightly to look. He recognized Nathan. There was another guy behind him whose worried face John barely had time to register before the door was pushed open suddenly and violently.

“Bastard,” Nathan swore at him, shoving John hard. “Motherfucking bastard.” He grabbed hold of the lapel of the bathrobe in one fist and delivered a badly thrown punch to John’s gut with the other. Harold was trying to get in between them and whoever the guy was that had followed Nathan into the room was reaching to hold him back.

John could have laid him out cold and almost did, without thinking, but held back. The punch was nothing, poorly aimed and not delivered with much power. John knew it had probably hurt Nathan’s hand more to connect with his hard muscles than it hurt him to absorb the blow.

“Haven’t you done enough to ruin his life,” Nathan demanded. His anger struck John as something he deserved. “How long this time. Why the fuck do you keep coming back.”

“I love him,” John said. It wasn’t enough. He knew that. Even his attempts to set Harold free were a lie. He’d hoped that Harold would wait for him.

More painful than taking the punch was seeing Harold put his arms around Nathan. He was pushing him back, away from John, but his forehead pressed into Nathan’s chest in a way that was disturbingly familiar, intimate.

“I came to him,” Harold insisted, looking up, his voice was pleading for understanding. Not angry. “It was my idea, not his.” It was difficult for John to see Nathan put his hands on Harold’s face, look down into his eyes. John glanced at the other guy who’d arrived with Nathan. He’d stepped back, his face bright, his eyes unhappy, and John thought … his boyfriend. He’s not liking this any better than I am.

“What are you doing here?” Harold asked Nathan.

“What do you think? I came to get you. To bring you home. When Arthur told me that nonsense about factories in China … I knew. I knew why you were here.” Just when John thought he would rather see Nathan dead than see him touch Harold’s face one more second, the man dropped his hands to Harold’s shoulders. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t jump when he calls and then put your whole life on hold. We’ve been waiting for you to show up. I didn’t think he would be with you.”

I’m right here and you are on thin ice, John thought

“Oh, Nathan. You’re crazy. Andre, couldn’t you stop him.” John thanked God that Harold was finally backing out of Nathan’s arms. He looked at the boyfriend who lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“I told him it was a bad idea, but we were worried. You’ve always been against this kind of fabric production and the trip was so sudden, it scared us. In the end he convinced me.” He looked at Nathan and back at Harold. “Honestly, I couldn’t stop him.”

“They’re right, Harold.” John decided it was time to put in his own two cents. “It was an insane idea, a dangerous idea,” he said. “And I’m gonna kill Arthur for letting you do it.”

“Kill Arthur? Stop. Everyone, just stop.” Even though Harold was unhappy, John was grateful that he was now looking at him. “Nathan is angry you, you want to kill Arthur. Is there no one who is willing to concede that I am the captain of my own ship? It’s always been my choice to wait for you, it was my choice to come here. Arthur tried to stop me, he couldn’t. If you and Nathan want to beat up on someone, here I am.”

John could think of a lot of things he’d like to do Harold and none of them were beat him up. He did want to get his hands on him. Harold looked surprisingly dignified standing there in his tee-shirt and boxers. On him, dignified looked sexy. His appealing pose, holding his arms out in offering, made John want to pick him up in his arms, carry him to the bedroom and devour him.

“I’ll take a hug,” Andre said. “Then I’ll take Nathan. You might as well fly back with us. It’s a charter and it’s mostly empty. We’re heading out tomorrow morning. Call me, Harold.”

“I will.”

It was easy for John to see Harold hug the boyfriend. No undercurrent to it, they were obviously friends. His eyes cut to Nathan. Nothing was forgiven there, still daggers in his gaze, but John didn’t expect any different. For his own part, he was done with placating him — Nathan had gotten his first and last free shot at him. John bit back the urge to ask him how his hand was feeling. They’d tolerate each other. That’s all that was necessary.

 

***

Harold was exhausted and he was torn. Unhappy with John, unhappy with Nathan. Only Andre had made some sense.

John followed him into the bedroom, where Harold had gone to sit for a moment, to get a drink of water from the bottle on the nightstand. He felt John’s approach from behind, his movement across the bed.

“Don’t be mad.” John’s voice undid Harold, even before the kisses on the side of his neck. “I know how smart you are.” More kisses, warm breath against his skin. He was melting. “I know how capable you are.” Harold’s eyes had closed, his arms were covered in goosebumps and his cock was hard to the point of aching. He had no fight in him, only desire. His body was congested with need, days on end of suppressed arousal. All he wanted was more, more of John. He took off his glasses and when John prompted, he lifted his arms to let him take his undershirt.

Why shouldn’t he have waited for this. Why was it wrong to only want John; the way it felt to be touched by him. Harold lay back on the pillows. There was nothing else like this, the connection he felt looking up at John. He’d waited for this. For how he felt when heard his voice. For the look in John’s eyes.

“There’s something I’d like you to do for me,” John said.

“Anything.”

“Touch yourself for me. Like you do when we’re not together.”

Harold had his doubts that John would find it erotic, but he was willing to show him. “Hand me my tee shirt.”

“Your tee-shirt, really?” John smiled and gave it to him.

“Sometimes, I do this.” He found the softest part to make a plump nest around his cock, and gazing at John, he moved it up and down his erection. It felt good, better than it did when he was alone and thinking of him. John’s gaze traveling over him, the lust in his eyes. Harold gave himself up to it, moving his hips as the feeling intensified and the cloth grew damp.

***

Okay, John thought, now I’m jealous of an undershirt.

Harold looked so sweet and so hot; just a crescent of his blue eyes showing under his lashes, biting his bottom lip, fucking his tee-shirt, John couldn’t stand it. He rubbed his hand over the cloth covered cock, he squeezed him through the fabric. Finally he pulled it away to get his mouth on him, to lick naked skin and sink down on him to suck. When his mouth was full of sperm he spit into his hand and used it to slick the pumping of his own overwrought cock and came all over Harold’s belly.

“That’s how I do it,” he told him, when he could speak, gathering his sticky lover in his arms. Harold felt warm and relaxed, softened all over, he looked a little dazed. “I think about soaking you in it.”

“Are you going to leave again, John?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Of course, he knew exactly where it came from and that it was always waiting to be asked.

“Not tonight.” He tried to answer lightly but the look Harold gave him said it wasn’t good enough. More seriously, he said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to travel with you, Harold. But I’ll come to you in the city as soon as I can.”

“The cover is good, John. Nathan being here actually helps. It makes the IFT story stronger.”

It went counter to his instincts. Any danger should be for him alone, should not touch Harold. But it was a good cover. Better than the agency had ever cooked for him. He did have some background in engineering and construction in the service. Harold had done a solid job. There was also a selfish part of him that wanted to be at Harold’s side, on that plane, in Nathan’s face. He wanted that man’s hands off Harold, for good.

“John Warren. Engineering and construction specialist, IFT.” He said it as if to taste the flavor of the identity, his hand roaming Harold’s damp stomach. “I like it.” What he liked even better was how Harold was urging him back down into his arms.

***********************************************************************

Chapter 16 — Confession

The flight back to the states was much more relaxed than the flight to Beijing. Nathan had spared no expense with the charter and was acting the part of a gracious host, at least from a distance; a relief given how things started the night before. Harold still sensed tension but Nathan was keeping to the front of the aircraft, and Andre was genuinely warm, playing the part of flight attendant.

He’d delivered a pot of Harold’s favorite tea. John had accepted a shot of Nathan’s top shelf whiskey on the rocks but hadn’t made much dent in it. He was studying the files Harold had amassed related to his cover. 

Harold was making his own study … of John, notepad open, a few quick sketches done. He was considering John Warren’s wardrobe. The silhouette would be sleek, nothing fussy, maybe not even a tie. A couple of buttons undone at the top. He’s an engineer, not a businessman, Harold thought. The fabric and fit, however, must be flawless. He wanted to see him in clothing worthy of him.

He toyed with proportions in his head and made notes. He could measure well by eye but an old-fashioned session with a tape measure was in order, especially for those long legs. Harold’s eyes traveled from his lover’s ankles up into the shadow of the tablet balanced on John’s thigh. He pictured himself on his knees, getting a precise inseam measurement, holding one end of the tape to the juncture of his thigh, brushing against his cock, his balls with the back of his hand. John standing still (or trying to) while he handled him, intimately.

John shifted in his seat and Harold looked up to find him … no longer studying his notes.

Caught.

There had to be someplace on this aircraft that offered privacy.

 

***

“Yes, they probably are, and honestly, Nathan, I don’t care.” Andre was trying to keep his voice down, and calm, and praying the heat of his boyfriend’s annoyance would burn out soon. He was inches from losing patience with the whole situation. He knew how protective Nathan was. He felt protective of Harold, himself, but this was starting to feel like something else.

Andre had gone through a number of changes in attitude. His instinct in the beginning was to trust that Harold had his own good reasons for jetting off to Beijing. When he’d learned that John Warren had apparently been doing some kind of hush-hush work for the government and there was a need for secrecy, it had lent weight to Nathan’s view of how dangerous the man was for Harold to be involved with. Now that he’d met John, his perspective had shifted. He no longer thought Harold was being taken advantage of. Maybe he wasn’t making the best choices but the choices were his to make. And John, very obviously, adored him.

“You haven’t seen the effects over the years,” Nathan said. “And I could frankly do without this.” He glanced back toward the aft service area, now screened off by a drawn curtain. Andre thought the two were being pretty quiet, all things considered. The slide of the curtain’s metal rings was the tip off that they wanted privacy.

“How often have you and I traveled with Harold and slipped off by ourselves.”

“This isn’t about sex,” Nathan insisted.

“Then what?” he asked.

“It’s about who Harold should trust.”

“I think you should start trusting Harold.”

 

***

 

“Stay quiet,” he whispered, and John tried. Not easy with his pants down around his ankles and his shirt open and Harold … torturing him.

Harold had pulled the curtain closed between the two sections. The ultra-plush area up front where Nathan and Andre were sitting, designed, no doubt, for the corporate big wigs, and the merely luxurious seating for the lower order of executives.

It wasn’t a lot of privacy, but enough. The heavy fabric curtain and twenty feet, more or less, separated them from the others. Harold had resisted when John tried to draw him down into his arms, into his lap. Shaking his head he’d pointed at John’s pants and gestured … off. Sit. He looked adorably intent, unbuttoning John’s shirt.

John was intensely aroused and more than willing if his lover wanted to take charge of him. He needed to grasp the armrests though, to keep from grabbing him, in spite of his willingness. There had been times (he didn’t want to think of now, but couldn’t help it) that Kara had used him, taken advantage of moments when silence and concealment stood between them and assailants. He’d resorted to the thought of Harold to keep himself sane when she played her dangerous games. Now he focused gratefully on his lover’s face, and when Harold kissed him, the scent of him, the feel of his mouth; slow sensuous, wet kisses dispelled Kara from his mind. A warm hand caressed his bare chest and lovingly toyed with his cock.

Harold stood back and John tried to plead with his eyes, looking pointedly at the erection still tucked behind the buttoned fly of Harold’s trousers. Harold stroked himself lightly through the fabric and John flashed a look up into his eyes to say, not fair!

The slightly raised eyebrow, his barely there smile. The look of lust in his eyes told him Harold had no interest in being fair. He knelt in front of John and lifted his balls toward his mouth, a warm tongue laved him and John struggled to stay quiet.

Harold began to stroke him without pressure. He gazed up at him briefly before deliberately angling John’s cock to his mouth. This was exquisite torment, to watch the honey-tressed head of his beloved moving over him, bumping against his stomach. To feel the wet lips and soft tongue. He was close, so close. He thrust at him and Harold grasped him in his fist, roughing his tongue against his slit as he pumped him and John came ecstatically, struggling not to cry out. He panted for air in the aftermath.

Harold rose from his knees in front of him. John might have thought he was calm if it weren’t for the look in his eyes and the speckled flush across his cheeks and down his throat. He was unbuttoning, exposing his beautiful hard cock. A gentle hand on the back of John’s head urged him forward and he ran the smooth head of it over John’s lips.

“Suck,” Harold whispered.

John thanked him silently, opening his mouth around him and sinking downward. When Harold was close to coming, John took him deep in his throat, the sensation made him feel like he was coming again, with him.

John dressed and straightened his clothes reluctantly. The curtain was opened.

What he craved was a bed to stretch out in, naked, with Harold in his arms. What he had was a pillow from the overhead bin. He tossed it on the floor at Harold’s feet and knelt there.

“Just for a little while,” he said, leaning into his lap, wanting to be held, to close his eyes and feel Harold’s fingers stroking through his hair, caressing his shoulders. It seemed to him that his new life was beginning here, now, entrusting himself to Harold.

 

***

 

“It’s a safe place,” Harold said, as they approached the library. “My security is … thorough.” He’d written a program to oversee his camera network and alert him to anomalous activity; it monitored an entire grid, not just access points. He’d enjoyed the challenge of defining behaviors to detect, refining it over time. Arthur had been dazzled by it and adopted Harold’s complex coding for his own system.

“To protect Arthur?”

“Yes, and no.” Harold led him inside. Much still needed to be said, to be explained about his own need for security but it could wait. Not for long, but for now.

It was a very great pleasure to bring John into his home, to see him take it in. For Harold, climbing the marble stairs with John by his side was a dream come true; as if the heart of his home had arrived.

Afternoon light poured in the tall windows, bathing the quiet workroom. Harold spotted a DVD case on the work table that he knew hadn’t been there when he left. He felt a little premonition of dread in seeing something unexpected, something out of place. He approached it slowly.

“What is it?” John asked.

“It’s … a message. From Arthur.” It was a copy of the Gene Hackman film, The Conversation. There was a note taped to it that said, “In case you need it.”

Harold opened the case carefully.

“Is that a good movie?”

Harold didn’t pause to explain. He popped out the disc and turned it over in his hands. The light caught incised marks on the back. Only Arthur could have written it, and only Harold could read it; a code they’d concocted together as students. He read aloud slowly as he deciphered.

“My dearest friend,

I am working under ever-tightening security and it is unwise for us to have contact. Please do not reach out. Accept this for now and know that I love you more than a brother. I have great hope that we’ll work together again in the future. I hope you have no need to watch this movie, but if you do, be comforted and think of me.

Take care of yourself!

Arthur”

“That’s written there?” John gazed at the disc.

“Yes, in code.” Harold caressed the disc for a moment before replacing it in the case. The layers of his friend’s message, the mingling of warning and comfort made him feel the loss of Arthur’s presence very keenly. He looked up at John, saw his concern.

“Is it because of me, Harold?”

“Yes, and no. There are things we need to talk about.” About Arthur, he supposed, though he thought John must suspect the nature of Arthur’s work. The truly necessary talk was about himself. “Would you mind very much if we talk … in bed?”

John smiled. “Seriously?”

 

***

 

He was more than ready to be horizontal with Harold in reach of his arms. Not as enthusiastic about talking despite the questions in his mind. The heavy security, the coded messages; how deeply was Harold involved in Arthur’s intelligence work? Hard to gauge what was coming and he dreaded that something, anything, might bring this dream crashing down around his head.

It was nice that the bedroom was built on a less grand scale that the entry and workspace, not too small a space, but more enclosed. John was stirred by the cool smooth sheets against his skin, waiting for Harold, eyes traveling over the shelves of books.

A library. Extravagance, a wealth of knowledge. Beautiful and mysterious. This was place was Harold. Everything I saw in him as a kid in that bar.

Harold finally appeared, in his pajamas. He had a bottle of water with him that he set on the nightstand. John turned back the covers and enjoyed the warmth of Harold’s gaze on his body.

“So … talk to me,” he prompted, half hoping that Harold would just sink into his arms and not … talk.

Harold looked like he wanted to. He lay down close but didn’t reach out. Glasses still perched on his nose.

“My real name,” he said softly, “is Harold Davidson.” John listened. There was nothing about the name that meant anything to him, but the seriousness of Harold’s tone put him on alert. “When I was seventeen I did something reckless, very reckless. I hijacked the government’s control of the internet, back then it was known as arpanet. I blew it wide open and the consequences were staggering. I had to run. I left everything behind and I ran. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

John felt stunned. He thought again of the boy he’d laid eyes on in that bar, knowing now what burden that youngster had been carrying. Mysterious, by necessity. All this security, it was for him.

“Who knows?”

“Arthur figured it out. It took him years, but he figured it out. He convinced me to tell Nathan. They’re the only ones. Now, you. I might have told you sooner but …”

“I wasn’t here,” John said. Feeling the sadness, the weight of the years they’d been separated, each of them living a hidden life. He reached out to brush his fingers through Harold’s hair. “The blond hair,” he said. “I’m guessing that was Nathan’s reaction to learning your secret. The name change to Finch.”

“That feels nice.”

“And Arthur. Working in intelligence. You should have stayed miles away from him.”

“We were … careful. He never told me what he knew about you, John. It was chance really, that I caught him tracking you and confronted him. The night of the Academy Awards, the night of the explosion. Nathan has no idea.” Harold’s eyes closed as John gently massaged his scalp and ruffled his hair.

Alarms should be triggering, so many possible threats, but John felt calm, gazing at Harold’s face. His brilliant lover, the light that had lived in his heart for years, now beside him, in reach of kissing. The eyes opened a little as John took his glasses.

He reached across Harold to set them on the bedside table and he sighed feeling the pajama clad arms flow around his neck.

Maybe they should be in a mountain cabin somewhere, he thought. Hidden. The instinct to flee. How many people had felt that, how many targets had John found as a result of it. Harold was right to have chosen this path. Hiding in plain sight.

He pushed the pajama top up to touch the soft skin of Harold’s chest as he kissed him. He’d never leave him again. Never.

***************************************************************************

Chapter 17 — Velvet

John quickly made himself something of a fixture at the IFT studios, finding projects to keep him near Harold. One reason was that he liked to watch him work, to see him create things; to see his face when he was passionately absorbed. He found multiple ways to make himself useful that allowed him to be in Harold’s proximity. Another reason, he admitted to himself, was to stake his claim.

There were a disturbing number of good-looking men in Harold’s orbit. In the beginning it was Nathan he wanted to monitor, to be sure that the tall lanky blond was not exploiting his partnership with Harold. The image of Harold putting his arms around Nathan, of Nathan touching Harold’s face, were stuck in his memory. It couldn’t hurt, he thought, to make his presence felt.

Being on hand to fix things, to oversee deliveries, to whip the warehouse into shape, whatever needed doing, it was all engineering to him. And sometimes, like the first time, Harold took him into the office and closed the door behind them. That was a very good reason to be there.

As it turned out, Nathan didn’t spend a lot of time in his office, but there was a veritable parade of models, of assistants and eager young interns, industry people and assorted fashionistas who preened and posed and competed for Harold’s attention. The first time John showed up, with tea for Harold and a couple of pastries he hoped to tempt him with, he stopped short not far inside the door of the vast workroom. Harold was ahead of him, leaning over a tall central table covered with sketches and fabric. Without his jacket, his perfectly fitted pants and vest made a heartbreaking view of his ass. There were a number of people gathered at the table with him, one next to him, a young man who pointed at something on the table and then rested his hand on Harold’s back.

“John.” It was Andre who snapped his attention. He was looking at him with some sympathy. “People hang on him all day, it doesn’t mean anything. You go get him, Tiger.”

People noticed his approach, and maybe because they were looking at something behind him, Harold straightened up and turned to see him. The look of pleasure that lit his face eased John’s heart. This was new. This business of being in an actual relationship (as opposed to the charade he enacted with Kara — would it hurt you to kiss a girl once in a while.) He’d only experienced it with Harold, and even that, for short periods of time, almost a decade ago. Being so openly loved almost hurt, it felt so good.

“You didn’t eat anything this morning,” John said, standing close, he put his hand on Harold’s shoulder and leaned down to kiss his forehead. Harold blushed, but smiled.

John scanned the faces around the table, letting his eyes say — That’s right, he sleeps with me and the rest of you can fuck off. Not subtle, but he wanted it known that Harold belonged to him.

 

***

John appearing with tea and pastries was extraordinary. He was really here, and solid, and … Harold wanted him. He was making excuses to himself as he led John back to his office. It might be because they were used to grasping every second they had, always a time limit, a deadline. Although, a small voice noted, that didn’t account for the first time. The fact that within minutes of meeting John he was kissing him … and minutes after that, melting in his arms on a dance floor. Neither of them had been on a dance floor since. The only reason they’d done such a thing was to press their bodies together.

I need to get used to the fact that he’ll be here tomorrow, not try to consume him whole every time I see him.

He turned the lock on the office door, guiltily. He totally disapproved of sex in the workplace and told himself he would never do this again, but … John. He turned to look at him. It was as if the US Army and Paris fashion had taken on human form to make a love child. He radiated military power but his beauty was as rich as dreamy textiles and strands of Chanel pearls.

He was unpacking the cups of tea and coffee, the pastry; some sort of croissants.

“For goodness’ sake, John.” Harold breathed the words. “Take your clothes off.”

 

***

 

He hesitated a moment as his brain re-examined the words and it clicked.

I heard that right. 

This was working out much better than he’d hoped. He put the cups and the pastry on the desk but … there was a day bed in the office. A very comfortable looking day bed with pillows scattered along the wall.

Harold was loosening his tie, unbuttoning his vest. He looked both a little guilty, glancing back over his shoulder at the door, and turned on, colored up, the smooth line of his pants getting strained. Harold stopped unbuttoning, looking distracted for a moment, eyes searching the room’s overflowing shelves until he spotted whatever it was he was looking for.

John got quickly down to his drawers. Harold handed him a folded pile of … velvet.

“Spread it out there,” he said, quietly, looking him over in a way that made John’s dick hard, “and leave those on.”

“Roger that,” he kept his voice low to match Harold’s hushed tone.

John whipped the fabric over the daybed.

“Lie down, please.”

The velvet was thick, soft. If he’d handed him a roll of burlap, he would have done the same thing and happily stretched out on it. Whatever Harold wanted, but, it did register that he wanted something this luxurious.

Standard issue army briefs. John had worn them for so long they meant underwear to him. Nothing pretty about them, army beige, they did the job … the job now was keeping his hard-on from waving in the breeze.

He watched Harold undress, or at least peel out of his shirt, get his trousers open and pushed down his thighs. His body was maturing but still boyish, there was a silkiness to his skin that John adored, a slight roundness to his belly in spite of how slim he was that made John want to rub his face into it. Harold pulled one of the pillows over to slide under John’s head, smiling at him, gazing at him as if he was beautiful.

 

***

Sacrificial velvet. Something to frame John like a jewel in a showcase, something to catch the moisture leaking out of him as he kissed him and massaged the warm handful of his cock through the cotton army briefs. Harold loved John’s mouth, every soft, wet surface, every texture. He drew back only to look at him in wonder and fall back to kissing him again. He worked his way down John’s body to his cock, pulling the elastic down partway to lick him and suck the salty pre-cum until the man was squirming before moving back up to his mouth.

Harold rubbed his erection against the plush velvet, thinking about fucking him as their kissing devolved into licking and sucking at each other’s lips. Condoms, lube, was he going to have to start keeping these things in his office? Another time. It would be enough to get him in his mouth and it had to be soon. He pushed the briefs down John’s thighs. The dusky cock he loved was dripping, the balls tight. They were both over-excited, so close. No more teasing, no time. He spit in his hand and fisted the cock he had no hope of taking down his throat for more than a few seconds. He sucked as he pumped it, feeling John’s hand wander through his hair, down his back to his ass.

***

John felt adored. It was in Harold’s kisses, his touch, his eyes, not the mechanics of his actions. It took John deep, the pleasure was intense between his legs but it spread through him like honey. He could hardly open his eyes. He wanted to come, he needed to come but he held onto the sweet plateau.

His hand was on Harold’s ass, the fucking motion was making him crazy; when he felt the shudder and jerking thrusts of Harold coming, he couldn’t hold back. He tried to be quiet but a low moan escaped him as he creamed the warmth mouth in blissful release.

“Sorry,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. More softly, with a deeper breath, “Sorry.” He patted the round butt and stroked Harold’s back. His love was resting his head which felt heavy and good on John’s stomach. He was moving very slowly, turning to look at him. He had a smear of cum on his cheek, his eyes were sparkly and he blinked slowly. John took a mental picture to keep.

There was a bathroom attached to the office. A good thing. John took charge of clean up. He figured Harold would feel better about indulging in this if they didn’t stagger out of the office looking like they’d done what they’d just done. When his boy and the office were set to rights John unlatched the door and they sat down to the slightly cooled drinks and pastry.

This sort of thing wouldn’t happen as often as John might like in the future, but there was always a chance.

 

***

 

Andre was John’s go-to person. Always kind and he always knew what was going on everywhere; in the workrooms, warehouse, the showrooms. He knew what was needed. He’d begun to keep lists of chores for John, things that needed doing by someone with a clue about machinery, carpentry, wiring, someone with time and muscle. Sometimes he’d be apologetic about what he was asking for.

“Would you mind taking a look at the bathroom in the model’s dressing room? I know it’s not your job … I could call the plumber. The boys say it keeps running.”

“I’ll look at it.”

“And this delivery,” he said, pointing to an item number and address on the clipboard. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” John assured him. He often made deliveries, the commercial plates and permits on the IFT cargo van gave him a lot of parking leeway in the city and sometimes he’d stop at a bakery or restaurant to find something tempting for Harold.

“It’s the tuxedo for Arthur’s wedding. He asked for Nathan, but, he won’t. You should stop in Harold’s office when Nathan leaves.”

“He’s here?” John had already combed the room with his eyes, seeking Harold. Now he noted the closed door to his office and his body went on alert. “I think I might check in, now.”

A hand on his arm. Andre gave him a beseeching look.

“Not a good idea. Nothing good can come of you and Nathan clashing. Harold loves him as a friend. You can’t change that, you can only make things tougher for him.”

Clearly Andre expected him to behave better than he felt like behaving. John eyed the office door again, considering the advice. He was probably right that making himself feel better by taking on Nathan would only hurt Harold in the long run. He looked back into the kind eyes. He nodded and took the clipboard. But why was the fucking door closed?

Seconds later it opened and Nathan came out. He didn’t look happy which, in selfish terms seemed like a good thing, maybe not so good for Harold. Nathan was heading toward them. His eyes nearly skidded over John, flashing briefly with distaste.

“Where’s Arthur’s tux. I’m taking it,” Nathan said. He and Andre moved away without a backward glance and John headed for the open door of Harold’s office. He reached it just as Harold was rising from his desk.

“You’re here,” Harold said. He seemed relieved and, even if a little wan, more happy than not to see him.

“Arthur’s getting married,” John said. Harold nodded.

“We’re sending him a tuxedo that he’ll have fitted by … a tailor. Nathan’s taking it. I felt like it should come from a friend and, obviously, I can’t do it.”

“Andre asked me. I said I would.”

“No. That would just as bad.”

John was curious about why Nathan was angry about Arthur but didn’t ask. If Harold wanted to talk about it, he’d bring it up. Harold was heading back to the workroom, he paused, a brief squeeze of John’s arm, lifting his chin to be kissed. John could tell he wouldn’t linger. Still, it was sweet to have even this brief contact. He had his list and those models couldn’t be expected to reach into a toilet tank. He left his suit jacket in Harold’s office and rolled up his sleeves.


End file.
